adapted from Freed Times Journalists Give Account of Captivity
Golden sedan, in the blackness of night
Sneaking into Adjabaya
Dusty, wind-swept.
Arabic signs punctuate the journey
Checkpoint emerges too quickly
Quaddafi loyalists bearing rifles
Car doors flung open
Then rebel bullets rained.
We flew, all four of us,
Crouching in dirt, hiding behind a stone wall
Taken
A man punched my face
Laughed at my tears
Punched me again
Another squeezed my breasts
A third stroked my hair tenderly
“You will die tonight”, he said
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